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Wilson gives so much of himself and takes none.
He never asks for anything.
Never begs.
Never pleads.
He never takes.
He gives, and he gives, and he gives.
He doesn't expect anything back, he stopped hoping years ago.
He's fine how he is, enabling House, letting the man take and take and take from him.
He's okay being House's babysitter and the mediator and the one who delivers bad news. It's okay.
He doesn't expect a thank-you card or an expensive fruit basket—he doesn't need it.
Because underneath, he doesn't deserve it.
He doesn't deserve the job he has, his home, his car, his friends, and his salary. As horrible of a friend House is, he doesn't deserve him either.
He doesn't deserve anything.
He's not above cutting himself to death, but the kitchen knife is heavy in his hand, so.. he lets himself be dramatic just once. He won't be missed, he knows. At least not him him. Dr. James Wilson will be missed, but there are countless of better oncologists at PPTH.
House might miss him, only because it's his scripts that get him the vicodin. He won't miss him as his best friend—he doesn't think they ever were, but he knows that's a lie. They keep coming back to each other like moths to light, even if it burns they can't stay away.
Cuddy might miss her meditator. The one she calls when House is either committing suicide or cutting open a newborn. They're friends sure, but not long enough for her to care.
No one does.
He's in the kitchen, it's dark out. The clock on the stove reads '03:22am'. Its a small knife, smooth silver blade. He moves over to lay his wrist up against the sink. He isn't above making a mess after all.
The first cut is fast—too fast, he grins. Its horizontal, not deep, but deep enough to where blood beads after the knife leaves it. The sharp, biting scent of metal hits him first. Its burning, yet he continues.
Two.. five.. then seven, all up to his elbow.
The blood drips down onto the sink, the blood loss makes his dizzy, yet the voice screams louder. Not enough.
Never enough.
Keep going.
Let your blood fill the sink with your pain.
They won't notice.
No one ever does.
No one cares.
Nobody cares about you.
You're alone.
You're forgettable.
You're useless.
You-
BBBRRRIIINNGGGG!
He jumps at the sound.
His phone.
Only one person would be of a lunatic enough to call him at three in the god damn morning.
House.
Gritting his teeth so hard he hears them squeak—he grabs his phone from his jeans, arm still bleeding over the sink.
"House." He bites out.
"Wilson." Replies the other cooly.
"I'm bringing Chinese." Right, because unfortunately the Chinese place has to still be open for House to keep them in business. Wilson believes they know him by name now, they have to.
He sighs. "Its three in the morning." As if House doesn't already know that.
"Yeah, I have a watch." He doesn’t.
"You're not coming."
"Why? You have hookers?" Teases the older brunette.
He groans. "Yes, I have seven in fact, all drooling over my cock." He deadpans. House chuckles over the receiver.
"Perfect, hookers go great with Chinese. I'll see you in a few." Fucking House.
"House, I swear to-"
The line goes dead.
He wants to scream.
He runs the cuts over hot water, punishing himself as he sobs, putting the sleeve of his sweater down over the cuts—the little pieces of string already catching and tugging with each move he makes.
How fun.
He goes to the couch, puts on a rerun of General Hospital and waits for House to key into his apartment like always. He doesn't even remember giving the other a key. Though knowing him, House must've either stolen his and gotten a copy, or.. well, is either lockpicking into his home. It doesn't even phase him anymore.
Its a few moments later when House walks in bearing goods, the scent of Chinese food warming up the place. "Awh, where are the hookers?" Pouts House as he makes a show of looking for the nonexistent women, hookers that never existed, mind you. House does move to sit next to Wilson on the couch, setting the food down on the coffee table.
He isn't hungry.
"Welp, you just missed them." He murmurs, going back to watching the TV as House digs in.
"Who died today?" Asks House, who can never let sleeping dogs lie.
"No one."
"Then why are you acting so glum?" Questions the other man, scooping Chow Mein into his mouth with his chopsticks. Wilson groans as he goes for the little takeout box of Crab Rangoons. He may as well enjoy himself.
"Its three in the morning and I'm tired." He murmurs. Though tired would be an understatement. He reaches into the back for some sweet and sour, before yelping when House grabs his arm—the bad one—to stop him. The pain is brutal, and House doesn't let go.
"House.. let me go." He swallows, fear ripping through him. The other frowns, tightening his old until Wilson chokes out a sob and snatches his arm back.
"You're hiding something." He accuses, eyes narrowed. He cradles his arm, though the blood seeps through the grey sweater. He should've atleast bandaged himself up. Or worn something darker.
Dumbass.
House sees it before he does.
"Let me see." He orders, setting his food down. Wilson shakes his head, but House corners him.
"Let me see." He demands.
"Its nothing. Leave it alone." He lies, his voice is shaky. He's always been a bad liar.
"No, its not. You're bleeding." He comments, as if his arm isn't burning with pain.
"Its fine. I'm fine." He defends too fast. Always too fast.
"No, you're not." House denies, lunging at him to get his sleeve to reveal the cuts, fresh and leaking. House is straddling one of his thighs, and Wilson can't bear to look at him, even as he can feel the man's eyes on him.
"You're cutting yourself." Observes the other. "Why?" Wilson scoffs wetly.
"Why don't we all?" He whispers, moving his eyes to look up at House.
House's eyes take on a new emotion, not exactly pity yet not exactly empathy. Like a puzzle.
"Get off of me."
"No, we need to bandage these."
"I'll do it myself."
House scoffs. "I've heard that one before." Too relatable.
Wilson looks at him.
House looks back. Rolls his eyes.
"Yes, yes, I cut myself too, womp womp, now c'mon." Groans the other, grabbing his cane and pulling Wilson along by the arm—the good one—to the bathroom where he gets set down on the toilet, his arm pleasantly numb, the blood dry and crusty and the skin around it angered and red from the sweater sleeve.
"Wait- but- How did I-" House bats the question away as he goes rambling in his bathroom drawers and behind the mirror for bandages.
"I lie better than you- it doesn't matter" But it does. To Wilson it does. How could he not see House hurting?
He should've been there.
Selfish, his mind sneers.
"When-"
"Tritter." House replies silently before grabbing a roll of bandages and cotton balls.
Ah.
House hadn't been in a good spot, he had overdosed, he had.. cut himself, and Wilson simply ignored him. Left him.
Selfish, is he.
"I'm sorry." Apologizes Wilson, though it feels too late for it. House shakes his head, grunting as he kneels down in front of Wilson to bandage him up. "Wait, your-"
"Oh for fuck's sake Wilson, I'm doing something nice here." Huffs the other. Wilson stays quiet with a pout. "There." Groaning, House stands up, grabbing his cane he had hooked over the sink. He leans against it as Wilson examines the bandaging.
"Uhm.. thanks." He murmurs, scratching the back of his head awkwardly.
"Right, yeah. Well, we are missing where Jennifer finds out-"
"I love you."
"Oh."
Wow. Well. Out of a million things Wilson could've said, this wasn't it.
"Well, that's gay." Deflection with sarcasm, what did Wilson expect.
"No- seriously, uhm- thank you, I- I expected more.." he waves his hand emptily.
"Snarking? Want me to tell you that cutting yourself horizontally gets you nothing and that vertically is the way to die?"
Wilson cringes. Nods.
"Well.." House rubs at the scruff growing by his jaw. "Don't do that. You're.." Wilson blinks. "You. You're you." House shrugs. Wilson chuckles.
"Wow. You're simply amazing at comforting people." Laughs. Laughs turn into sobs. He cups his eyes and sobs. The night comes to him. He can't stop sobbing. House simply watches. Silently.
"You're okay." House murmurs, a heavy hand on his shoulder.
They stayed like that the whole night, in their little four walls of silence.